


you fucked with the eagles (but no one taught you to fly)

by heatherchandler (red_handedjill)



Category: Heathers (1988)
Genre: Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Platonic Female/Female Relationships, Suicide, very loosely implied sexual assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 11:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5665138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_handedjill/pseuds/heatherchandler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being in love with Heather is a lot like being bulimic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you fucked with the eagles (but no one taught you to fly)

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what that ending is either.

Twelve years old and you'd never guess Heather has that kind of secret. You sit down with her, Heather McNamara seated to her right, and flash a bright smile (your braces are ugly but your teeth are pearly). It's lunch and Heather M is too nervous about cheer tryouts to eat. Still, you weren't really prepared to be the only Heather eating.

It makes you feel kind of sick ( _disgustingdisgustingdisgusting_ —fucking pig).

The lunch tray is a dull greyed out blue and none of you think it's pretty so maybe that's why _she_ doesn't touch her food. Your eyes betray the insistence in your head that Heather is okay anyways, eyebrows creasing worriedly.

(You'll never know how many months she's been skipping food and purging after dinner by now.)

"My _boyfriend_ —" Heather's been throwing that word around like a shiny toy since some sophomore asked her out "—invited me to a high school party tonight. That's why I'm not eating."

Heather M frowns at her and you drop your fork but no one pushes for more details. She'd tell you if it was an invite for the two of you too. Or maybe she wouldn't. It's not in your control.

* * *

You wait up by your phone with Heather M at your impromptu sleepover, hoping she'll call to tell you everything. You pass out before your mom yells and wake up with no missed calls.

Oh. Maybe Heather doesn't care about you now she has high school boys with varsity jackets and girls in skirts dangerously short to hand her a red cup and grin without braces. Maybe she forgot all about you already.

The thought of Heather forgetting hurts more than anything else.

Is that why you say no when Heather M asks you if you want her to cook breakfast? (Your mom just left. Maybe she forgot you too.)

Heather ends up on your porch, her dress torn funny and a big letterman jacket over it. She still smiles like a movie star and taunts you with ghosts of stories from the party.

"Why won't you just tell us everything?" Heather M pouts, her fingers lacing into yours. If Heather has older boys and girls who want to do better than braid her hair, you two have to stick closer now.

Her eyes drop for a split second, their sparkle dulling. And then she lifts her chin, smirking. "If you wanna fuck with the eagles, you have to learn to fly."

She says it like she isn't fully sure of what it means.

Still, neither of you question her.

(You just want to learn to fly.)

* * *

Control. The difference between you and Heather is control. Heather is _bulimic_ , you have _control_. Loss of control is what makes an eating disorder. Purging uncontrollably, being unable to eat more than a bag of Corn Nuts for lunch, obsessively keeping track of her dress size, those are the things that make Heather bulimic.

You can control it. (It's just that you're starting to make choices more and more similar to what she does.)

Heather is the one who needs help. Maybe you can fix everything for her. Wouldn't it be beautiful if you could? Maybe she'd stop forgetting to call and cancel your sleepovers and movie nights for that stupid, stupid boy. You want her to stop doing that. He's not worth it. Not worth all these years you've been friends and all these years you've been there for her.

But maybe letting her lose control ruined all that.

(Goddamn it, Heather, can't you do anything right?)

No wonder Heather hates you. You deserve it.

* * *

Your fourteenth birthday kind of sucks. Heather M can't get out of a trip to her mom's and Heather just ... Forgets. You guess she did, at least. She didn't call to cancel on you. There's a different boy now (a senior, she still likes older boys). He's probably keeping her away from you.

He doesn't deserve Heather. You don't either but you're sure he doesn't.

That's not the kind of thing you're supposed to think about. What would your (long gone, doesn't give a fuck, was never even there) father say if he knew that? If he didn't want you before, he sure as hell wouldn't if he knew.

Knew what? Even you don't know what it is. (Love?) She's your best friend. You're probably just jealous she's spending time with him instead of you. That's probably normal.

Being normal would be nice. Heather probably wouldn't forget you so much then.

So, of course you do the normal thing and eat a slice of cake (then you empty your stomach but _hey_ , you have control) and flirt with Kurt Kelly. He ends up groping under your shirt and over your bra in the restaurant's bathroom. You let him because it's the normal thing to do.

(And you know Heather's let him get to third base, she would approve.)

* * *

To apologize for missing your birthday (it's a first on every account), Heather takes you to the mall. Just you. She lets you hold her hand when no one's looking and maxes her dad's credit card buying you outfits you model for her.

You've never felt so beautiful, or had her smile at you so much. The back of your head whispers to pray to God that those two aren't related. You'll be sick if they are. (Like you won't already for that soft pretzel.)

"Look at you ... Told you green was your color," she whispers, fixing your hair. You can't breathe. She must be an inch away from you. You can smell her perfume (the nice, new one she got from her dad's last business trip), the slightest hint of a cigarette, and ... Not even a bit of his cologne. Heather is yours right now.

Mom always told you not to stare at the sun, but maybe Heather isn't the sun. Maybe she's the stars and the galaxies and the nebulas and the planets and the everything. (Or maybe she's the eagles and you've flown too close. Or you haven't flown at all, do you even have wings?)

"... You're beautiful," you whisper, softer and quieter. It's almost nothing, like the faintest drop of rain on your forearm. Too bad Heather is so close.

She smiles slightly and you know she heard. "Today is your day, shut up about me."

How could you ever?

* * *

Approval. You control it in hopes of her approval. (She approved everything about you today, shouldn't that be enough?) For hers and your father's and your mom's and Heather M's and your own.

Heather approving of you once doesn't mean she always will. She almost never does.

Your father? Will you ever be able to have his?

Your mom will approve once your grades are all perfect and your clothes don't stick too tightly to your fat.

Heather M ... Cheerleaders are hard to please, aren't they? With their perfect bodies and perfect smiles.

You're not good enough. (Not good enough for Heather.) Not thin enough, not pretty enough, not smart enough, not anything enough to be a Heather. If it wasn't by name, you wouldn't be at all.

Sometimes you think you're worthless. Usually, that's when you're kneeling over a toilet, sticking fingers down your throat. Disgusting.

She'll never approve of you like that again. Not once she knows how much you weigh.

* * *

Sixteen years old and dead, shattered through her own glass table with a copy of _The Bell Jar_ (that you gave her, you stupid fucking idiot) next to her suicide note. She talks about how no one knew the real her and how she hurt so much. You knew she hurt. You knew you should've helped her, should've done something.

You're useless. What kind of a _friend_ (a girl who was _in love_ with her) doesn't even know the real you? Or help you?

A really shitty one, probably.

But it's not like Heather ever told you. It's not like she made any effort to let you know or took you up on all those offers of a shoulder to cry on or someone to call at 3 am on a school night or any of that bullshit you were willing to do. It's not like Heather asked if you were okay.

Or told you she gave a damn that you were puking your guts up so she would tell you you were worth anything. Maybe she was the one who didn't know how to fly. Maybe it was all her fault. Maybe you didn't do anything wrong and you get to be angry that she killed herself.

Heather killed herself.

And you? You only have yourself.

* * *

 Heather M holds your hand at the funeral. She doesn't tell you it's okay because you're not crying. You return the favor. Neither of you are crying. The note hurt to read and it hurt to find out but she was the one who pushed you both away.

(It wasn't her fault.)

You're both okay without her. Well, you will be. Probably. At least Heather can't make you stay up thinking about her eyes or her legs or her anything anymore. You're not sick enough to masturbate to a dead girl.

Loving her gets to stop now. It gets to go away (maybe your dad will realize and finally come back to at least _meet_ you) forever. Like Heather. No more "you're not good enough," or "I would've called but he came over," or "it doesn't matter anyways," or "shut up, Heather." Nothing.

You think maybe Heather dying can be a good thing.

Right?

It's what you pray about anyways.

* * *

Yourself. You stop for yourself, no more hands down your throat or tears in your eyes. See? You did have control. Heather M was wrong about you needing to see a doctor and Heather was wrong about you being bulimic. (Heather who you miss when the radio dies and you get stuck at a red light.)

You stop for yourself and no one else (except Heather who you promise yourself loved you at least as a friend).

At least, you mean to. You're supposed to have control, you weren't bulimic. Aren't bulimic. You aren't Heather. Wearing red and her scrunchie and saying bitchy things doesn't make you Heather. You're not Heather. You're never going to be Heather, no matter what J.D. tells you with a charming smirk and the quickest kiss to your lips (ignoring Veronica, you're better than Veronica in _someone's_ eyes for once).

Heather could never control it but you can. You're strong, you must be strong. And you don't even need anyone's approval now.

(You still crave hers and now you can at least get _his_ , right? It's a cheap replacement but it's something.)

Even you can't pretend that's true when you wind up puking up an entire shelf on the fridge at Heather M's. She cleans you up and holds you against her chest, whispering that it's okay.

How could it be okay? You were such a bitch to her and you thought you could replace Heather, thought you were strong enough.

"We don't have to fuck with the eagles anymore. That's what killed Heather. Just stop trying and it's okay."

(Icarus flew too close to the sun, Heather flew close to the eagles. Maybe you should learn from that.)

You leave Heather M's house on his motorcycle, ignoring everything you know is true. You can't do this for yourself, you need to do it for someone. Who cares if you can't understand why he'd ever kiss you or ask you to do any of this?

Maybe you'll be strong enough tomorrow. (Isn't tomorrow the pep rally? Maybe he'll take you.)

Whatever. It doesn't matter when you close your eyes and all you can think of is _Heather_.


End file.
